InZync poetry blog

Word of mouth

Skerp Tonge

Reinhart Rymhard

Skerp tonge sny, ma’ verraai ook die pyn van slawerny,
gekettingde gedagtes sonder magte, verkrag deur jare se leë verwagting,
verontagting van ware waarde, behep met die aarde,
hoe leef mens in vrede as j altyd in gevaar is, altyd bedreig voel,
as j injustice an jo lyf voel,
dit slag my diep van binne
as ek dink anni kinners, wie se ouers nie saam bou,
niks het om an te klou ni,
ma’ da word verwag dat hulle beter moet weet, seker moet wees
van dit wat hulle ni sieni.

Dis ’n genadelose siklus, elkeen vervul net hulle siek lus,
oë toe gepleister, ore toe van luister, hanne gebal in vuiste,
ma’ ek verstaan jo cry, spoeg in sy gevreet,
hoe lank moet onse mense nog bitter kruie eet,
ons bou huise wat ons nooit in kan bly nie,
altyd an di kortste ent en niemand wat vi ons baklei ni,
ek is voor an di lyn as die waarheid my ni stry nie,
maar da is oë wat kyk en ’n hand wat gryp,
vlees van vlees wat ons binnedring, in die binnekring word ons omsingel in,

Ons was ’n leun verkoop en ons het dai leun an ons lyf geknoop,
daardie lyf was toe verskeur met lewe, di dood daarin oorlede,
woord in gees geskrewe, Brood gebreuk
ons nood kreet in n onskuldige dood versteek

Ek kykie na die hanne van ’n man om vir ons ’n weg te skeppie
want ’n man is nie bang om te vat van die wattie hettie
en dit in mooi taal op te dressie
manne van vandag het baie bek ma wetie hoe om met hulle hanne te blessie
die ware lewe issi daar buite nie

dis in bloed weggesteek
net die wat sterf kan rerig daarvan eet
elke tweede man dra ’n storie met hulle eie agenda an
opreg in hulle intensies
ma’ kannie reg sien deur die skrape in hulle lens sie

Ons saai slegte saad
ons antwoord die vraag
maar ons verstaan nie die toets nie.
Maar wat weet ek?

Ek weti wavan ek prati,
ek was nog nooit an tik verslaafi, het nooit niemand an di dood afgestaani,
ek dinki na oor dai dae nie, ek raki naar oor dai dae ni,
ek vra ni vrae oor hoekom en waarom dit an my opebaari,
ek wassi in gevaari, met donkerte deurmekaari,
ek is gepla deur al die mense deur my gescari, counterfeit van die ware, ’n massive show vi ’n imaginary skare,

Ek weeti wavan ek prati,
ek issie instaat om akuraat te verklari,
die mens in sy geskeide posisie,
sy geskeide illusie, die kortsigte visie van n mens wat ni mens wil weesi,
wat genees is ma’ nie ees dit wil weeti,
want dit beteken dat hy swakheid moet inbereken, en dit kani deug ni,
hy kan hom ni lat beweeg ni.

Skerp tonge sny, ma’ verai ook die pyn van slawerny.

© Reinhart Rymhard
Twitter: @rymhard

 

Let’s meet in a glove box
Ofentse Hlulani Mokwena

The year is 2N16-O-18W. Humans have exhausted the numbering system. There is a disease with many cures plaguing the world. The suppressants are not working, people are suffering. The farms are full of vegetation, people are eating a lot. The economy is dead, there are no markets, very little money and the rich people are broken – joyous in their shacks. “There is little to give away when people have so much”, were his words to her. Behind them, a radio ruffles a report : “The disease is spreading, another one of the many cures is being developed...” “...by a carpenter, a poet, a slave, a child, a thinker, a dreamer, a liver, a guttersnipe” she said to him with a glowing smile. Over them hung the glove box. It tends to pull them in.

I don’t care if you never look,
Since your eyes seek for weak candies,
Your tongue knows little of puns,
The words you cock and spit are cheap to hear,
And my ears don’t need a loud mouth:
Wide open with waggings of nothing but dogs
Chasing
Tales.
Yeah, yawning through conversations,
Cunt, wait for bedtime.
Vomiting at clubs,
Leaning on a piece of meat.
Cunt weighted for bedtime.

Always tender,
Ready to be soaked in
Liquor of urine and the sucking of cum..
Cum that can't be exiled from the lands of sodomy

And the countries of cunt-doms
Spiced with the make-up of shamelessness
And stressed damsel in distress dresses…

Bow ties to arrows of divorce poking the
Gecko egos of dick-wits, wrapped like
Supermarket
Stake in condoms
Of modern bush-digging,
And sneaking.

Yeah, sneaking through narrow walkways paved
With bricks of morals,
Ubuntu demonically demolished and demoralised
Whilst the capitalist
Cement is not incorporated but processed
To possess and weld
Broken wealth
To a rod.
“Yes, this spear will serve to hunt,
Serve to hunt for
The meat of cunt.”

Gorgeously grilled
By the heat of lust,
Fires of rich flames waving a sea
Of golden coal cooking a toxic
Happily ever after movie with moving
Subtitles in all languages,
Literate savages.

Literate savages
Littering the world of who we are
“With ’em
Shallow actors.”

“Always ready to swallow” (He said)
“Always ready for bed” (She said)

Let’s meet in a glove box.

© Ofentse Hlulani Mokwena

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